


Peace On Earth (Will Come To Stay)

by MagicalTear



Category: 1917 (Movie 2019)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Alternate Universe - Everyone Lives/Nobody Dies, Canon Era, Christmas Eve, Christmas Fluff, Fix-It of Sorts, Fluff, Historical Accuracy, M/M, Post-Canon, Pre-Canon, Prompt Fic, Tom Blake Lives
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-12-25
Updated: 2020-12-25
Packaged: 2021-03-10 16:47:11
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 9,847
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/28300362
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/MagicalTear/pseuds/MagicalTear
Summary: Blakefield Winter Wonderland Day 24: Christmas Eve“Peace on earth will come to stay,When we live Christmas every day.”– Helen Steiner Rice (1900-1981)A small glimpse into William Schofield's Christmas Eves from 1916 to 1919 as pertaining to one Thomas Blake.
Relationships: Joseph Blake & Tom Blake, Joseph Blake & William Schofield, Joseph Blake/Lieutenant Leslie, Tom Blake/William Schofield
Comments: 11
Kudos: 30
Collections: Walking In A Blakefield Wonderland





	Peace On Earth (Will Come To Stay)

**Author's Note:**

> Merry Christmas and Happy Holidays, everyone! Thank you so much for giving my first fic such a warm response. Surprisingly, today's prompt became quite a challenge for me. I must have rewritten it at least four times until the sweet [yonderlight](https://archiveofourown.org/users/yonderlight/pseuds/yonderlight) sold me on this final version - this fic wouldn't exist without you, so thank you! I also want to give a huge thank you to my teachers in The Officers' Club and to my ducklings in the 2nd Devon's for always having my back.
> 
> I dedicate this fic to my dear [Ailendolin](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Ailendolin), who made me fall in love with Leslie like no one before. Our chats kept me going during this busy month, so thank you for being such a caring and supportive friend! This is all for you and your beautiful _Stegosaurus_!
> 
> And here is my huge shoutout to my beloved Beta [crookedsilence](https://archiveofourown.org/users/crookedsilence/pseuds/crookedsilence). I seriously can't thank you enough for tackling all these challenging deadlines with me. Thank you for your patience, your encouragement, and your positive attitude. I wouldn't be celebrating my Christmas Eve by posting my finished fic today if you hadn't been there with me every step of the way.

The tired groans of dozens of men rose over the early morning mist lingering atop the white fields of France. They were reaching the third hour of intense digging at the west side of Desire Trench in Buigny-Saint-Maclou, to the north of Abbeville, but Lance Corporal William Schofield couldn’t find it in himself to complain like the privates in his section heartily did. His shoulders and arms and lower back ached from all the shoveling, but at least the motions helped to keep the cold at bay. Will had witnessed what happened to the men who gave in to the exhaustion, who sat down for a nap from which they never woke up again. Winters in the trenches were merciless, and no one cared anymore if Christmastime was upon them this 1916.

“Bloody hell, Blake. My arms are about ready to fall off, how are you still going?”

The huffing coming from another group of privates gathered nearby caught Will’s attention for a second. Three men stood around a much younger private, leaned against their shovels as they caught their breath and watched the boy work. Will instantly recognized the flushed cheeks and light blue eyes of Thomas Blake, a rather cheerful lad that had joined the 8th East Surreys with the other reinforcements a couple of months ago.

Will had seen quite a lot of Private Blake since then—too much, probably. Blake wasn’t loud per se, but he gave Will the impression that he was _everywhere_. Will had seen him volunteering on supply runs, playing cards with the older soldiers, telling stories to the younger ones, offering smiles as readily as he offered his hand in aid. Will had already turned his company down multiple times, but Blake would always come back and try again the following day.

Today, Will realized with a start, Blake was a meek shadow of who he normally was. The usual apple red of his cheeks had faded into an ashy white, contrasted only by the stark red of his nose and cold-chaffed cheeks. His smile had melted into a heavy set frown that would have looked more at home on Will’s own lips, and his gaze remained stubbornly fixed on the blade of his shovel.

Will didn’t miss how Blake ignored his mates’ comments. He continued digging. Mechanically. Blinking dark eyelashes to hide misty eyes.

Will supposed there always was a first time for everything. He knew it for a fact in this forsaken war.

Will still worried.

• • •

The men were ordered to stand down by 10:45 am, almost two hours later. Good thing too because Will was bloody starving. The rest of the men were louder in voicing their grievances while they all made their way back to the mess tents for breakfast. The portion of soup he received in his mess tin and the vegetable-tasting tea he was given were as inedible as usual, but at least they were adequately heated this far back from the front lines. He had heard the cooks of the 8th were holding on to as many Maconochie Stew cans as they could for an improvised Christmas dinner the next day. Half the battalion had already implored them not to bother. The other half had spread the rumor that the cooks were preparing milk biscuit pudding instead.

Will had started saving his biscuits to avoid risking tomorrow’s dinner. Just in case.

He found a seat at a fair enough distance from the rest of the men and dedicated himself to the hard task of swallowing his breakfast. He was left unbothered that morning, and he startled at the realization that he had been preparing to fight off Private Blake’s attempts at fraternizing. After scanning the area, he spotted Blake sitting in the space opposite from him, far from everyone. Blake cupped his own mess tin to warm up his frozen hands, but his gaze drifted far in melancholy.

Will found it odd that no one else had noticed. No one else approached Blake or offered a hand to him in return. The thought made something acid and angry swirl in Will’s stomach, but a commotion to the side stole his attention before he could ponder much on the feeling.

Eager soldiers swarmed the poor postal orderly that had just walked in before he could drop down heavy sacks full of letters and parcels. It was odd receiving the post so early in the day when it was usually handed out during dinner, but Will figured the postal units were doing the best they could during the holiday season. At least the sight of the orderly cheered up the men the way the concept of a Christmas dinner couldn’t, and the area exploded with excited inquiries and names yelled out in hopes of quickening the delivery process. However, the whole place fell into a sudden hush once the post orderly lifted a placating hand. As eager as they were, the men allowed him space to call out the names scrawled on every envelope and every wrapping.

“Percy Farleigh!”

“Over here!”

“Lewis Alley!”

“Let me through!”

A well-known dread settled like a stone behind Will’s ribs, and he turned away from the commotion. His gaze fell back on Blake instead, and he took in the way he had sat up straighter and paid rapt attention to the post orderly as he called out name after name.

A thought shone bright in Will’s mind then. Of course. This was Blake’s first Christmas out on the front—his first Christmas away from home.

Will found himself praying to hear the orderly call Blake’s name as intensely as Blake was doing across from him. The lad deserved the comfort of home even if Will feared it for himself. But the more the minutes dragged on, the more the post sacks emptied and hope dwindled. Will could do nothing but watch as the light in Blake’s eyes dimmed, his posture slumped and curled inward. Will was overcome by the urge to stand up and approach him, offer him…a solid presence at his side or a warm hand on his shoulder—anything! But before Will could act upon that urge, the postal orderly’s voice pierced and shattered his thoughts as quick as a bullet.

“William Schofield!”

Blake’s head whipped around and those blue eyes of his nailed Will to his seat. Will felt suspended in time, his panicked brain failing to settle on anything specific. An annoying buzz muffled his hearing, and he belatedly registered Blake’s eyebrows knitting together in a frown.

“William Schofield?” the postal orderly called again.

“Schofield!” a fellow Corporal snapped by Will’s left, and that finally got Will to react.

Will shot out of his seat and poured his poor excuse of tea on the dirt below. He grabbed his mess kit and strode over to the orderly, expression a stony façade. He couldn’t even work his voice to offer him his gratitude before he snatched his parcel and letter—God, Winnie had sent him a _letter_ —and escaped from the noise and Blake’s jealous stare.

• • •

The frozen dirt crunched under Will’s hurried steps as he found a spot secluded enough from the rest of his company. He could see multiple others already reading their post, and that sort of communion calmed Will’s jitters somewhat. Sadly, it did nothing to alleviate the choking feeling of dread and homesickness he tried to keep buried as deep as the trenches they dug that very morning.

Will hadn’t written to his sister since he returned from leave months ago. What kind of words could she have selected to write him this Christmas Eve? Would she be angry? Vengeful? What if it was _worse_? What if she was sad and worried and unable to live her life with her two daughters, Helen and Dorothy, because she was too worried about a brother and a husband who had both been sent to horrors so far away from her?

Will swallowed with difficulty and hurriedly stuffed the unopened letter under all his layers, right into the breast pocket where he kept his blue Hignett’s tobacco tin. Instead, he turned his attention down to the small parcel resting upon his lap. It kept a loose squared shape, wrapped in brown post paper and chord. His fingers shook as he opened the parcel, and although he tried his best to be gentle, the paper still tore between his numb fingers.

Winnie had knitted him a scarf. It was a muted gray in color, the yarn thin and compact so that it wouldn’t hinder him while keeping him warm.

Will loved it.

He lifted the scarf from its wrapping with gentle hands and childishly pressed it to his face. There was a strange weight and shape hidden in the middle of the scarf, but Will would get to it in a moment. He inhaled deeply, picking apart the strong scents of petrol fumes and sea wind to reach the faintest hint of his sister’s perfume. It was the same his mother used to wear, and the nearly imagined roses and jasmine were enough to throw Will ten years into the past—to Christmases when peace on Earth was a given and all that mattered was knitting stockings and bobbing for apples.

At the feel of tears prickling under his eyelids, Will lowered the scarf back onto his lap and took a steadying breath. Without the cover of the scarf, the chilled December air froze his very lungs. The shock of it was enough to make him forget his tears, and he set about uncovering the mysterious second gift. This second parcel was shaped more in the form of a rectangle, though it had gotten squashed and suffered severely during its delivery.

Curious, Will worked it open to reveal a massacred fruitcake. The poor thing was dry beyond repair, probably stale too. Still, Will grabbed a large chunk that had broken apart and held it up to his nose. Cinnamon, cherry, sugar… Winifred had truly gone all out for him this year.

Guilt rose like bile up his throat. With a sigh, Will put back the chunk of fruitcake and wrapped it up again. Receiving such fond pieces from back home dug a hook under his bellybutton and _yanked_. He couldn’t help but feel disgusted by himself. Here he was, sitting like a proper, ungrateful bastard. How many men had been left waiting for news from home this Christmas Eve? Blake couldn’t have been the only one--

Blake.

The dejected look that had taken over his teary eyes haunted Will’s mind even now. It struck him as odd that no one had approached Blake yet. With how animated he usually was, Will had assumed he had made a few friends with the other privates. Will had a feeling the situation would bother him the whole day, so he opted to do something about it before his mind decided he needed even more remorse weighing down on his shoulders.

With the focus of a set goal in mind, Will shoved the wrapped fruitcake in the deepest pocket of his jacket and wrapped his new scarf around his neck. The warmth was an immediate comfort, but Will didn’t want to rub any salt on Blake’s wound when he approached him, so he unbuttoned his top layers and tucked the scarf underneath, hiding it from view. As he suspected, it didn’t bulk awkwardly but still provided him with a new layer of comfort while he quickly redid his buttons.

• • •

Will went back to the mess tent with his new goal quickening his strides. He tossed the wrapping paper from his parcel into the flames of the field kitchens and searched around for a hint of where Blake could have gone. However, the companies were called back to witness a demonstration in the use of the Stokes Gun before his exploration could get far, so he followed the others to where the mortars had been set up.

Will hated it—the demonstrations, always learning new ways to kill another man—but at least the occasion allowed him to easily spot Blake between the other privates. He startled slightly when he did, not expecting to find him so soon. His gaze had settled on Blake as if by instinct or habit alone, and Will shied away from digging too deep into that line of thought.

Alas, he couldn’t approach Blake yet, so he stood at attention with the rest and waited for the demonstration to be over.

• • •

It was well into the afternoon when the men were allowed to walk away only because the semifinal of the football divisional tournament was about to begin. Their team was playing against the Divisional Supply Column, and most of the men in the 8th were expecting a sort of Christmas miracle to give them the win into the final. Plenty of bets had been placed already, bets that Will was sure would be spent tomorrow and the day after while the men enjoyed their holiday.

A few soldiers set up the improvised goals and eagerly crowded around the makeshift field. Will stayed on the edges of the crowd that had gotten even louder and rowdier after their spirits were lifted with the relatively quiet day. Some of the men rubbed their sore backs and shoulders from that morning’s digging, but most huddled close for warmth against the cold December winds, laughing together. Will’s eyes swept past his section, knowing that Blake’s wouldn’t be far.

The match started and the tired soldiers roared with cheers and encouragement thrown to their specific mates. Will weaved his way through a few groups, dodging careless elbows and stomping feet with ease. He spotted Blake at the very moment that the 8th scored the first goal of the match. Blake was sitting farther from his section than Will had anticipated, curled into a tight ball on the frozen dirt where he leaned back against some Maconochie crates. He appeared to be watching the match like the others, but Will could recognize that faraway look in his eyes even from a distance.

Steeling his resolve, he approached the pile of crates and took a seat on the ground next to Blake, keeping a polite distance between them. The movement startled Blake back to the present, but Will allowed him a moment and kept his gaze fixed on the football match. He could feel Blake’s cautious gaze burning the side of his face, so he showed him a small mercy.

“Who’s winning, then?” he asked.

He flickered his gaze over to Blake for a moment to make it clear he was addressing him. Blake’s dirty cheeks had tear tracks revealing a trail of clear skin underneath.

Blake tensed at the attention, but more out of confusion than anything else. “Us… sir,” came his clipped reply, the formal address most probably tacked on due to his awkwardness. “Samuels just scored.”

Will had no idea who Samuels was. He had doggedly refused to learn the new recruits’ names and only remembered the ten men in his section. Blake was the exception. Still, he nodded.

Will remained quiet after that, offering Blake his close presence as a comfort. It took a few minutes, but Blake relaxed eventually. He kept sending Will these open looks full of wonder, and Will grudgingly admitted he probably deserved to be gawked at in such a manner. He had always turned down Blake’s friendly companionship and had barely sent a couple of words his way. It must seem strange for Will to approach him so eagerly now.

Still, seeing Blake displaying such heartache…it didn’t sit well with him.

“It is normal for the post to be delayed during the holidays, you know?” Will offered kindly. “Maybe something will come tomorrow.”

Blake sent him a squinted gaze, gauging his intentions. Will could understand if he was afraid of mockery or condescending pity. He offered Blake neither, so he met his stare with open sincerity. Blake’s harsh look softened, revealing the aching vulnerability that he had been trying so hard to hide all day.

“I’m just…” Blake worked his throat and turned back to the match while he found his words. “I’m worried about my mother. This is the first Christmas she spends on her own.”

Will blinked. “I thought your brother was going to request leave to prevent that from happening.”

Blake turned back toward him, not even bothering to close his gaping mouth this time. “You _were_ listening to me!”

“It’s a little hard not to,” Will teased him, allowing the faintest smile to pull at his lips. He scooted closer to Blake, aiming a friendly jab with his elbow at his ribs.

Blake giggled upon the contact, pushing right back with his own arm. Will felt the world find balance once more.

“Oh, sod off, Scho,” said Blake, and the nickname gave Will pause. He still wasn’t used to it. “Last I heard from Joe, he said he would try, yes. But I don’t know if his leave got granted. I hope it did. Mum doesn’t deserve to spend the holiday alone.”

“Neither do you,” Will reminded him, voice gone soft as he allowed himself to fully appreciate the goodness that resided in Thomas Blake.

“Yes, well,” Blake licked his chapped lips, sending Will a shy glance from under his dark eyelashes. “I’m not exactly alone now, am I?” He inched closer to Will this time and used his shoulder to give Will a friendly shove, which was more a firm press of his weight than anything.

Will’s face pinked at the motion. He held Blake’s gaze for a moment, and it was all it took for a gentle smile to appear on his lips. “No,” Will breathed out, full of reverent wonder, “I don’t suppose you are.”

The smile Blake returned fitted him better, stretched so wide his dimples showed and his eyes squinted in the most adorable way. Will’s breath stuttered. He blamed the cold out of habit alone.

“I’ll take your word for it and wait for news tomorrow,” Blake told him. “For what it’s worth, I’m glad you received something today.”

Winnie’s letter sat heavy in Will’s pocket. _Tonight,_ Will thought. He would open it tonight.

He sent Blake a small nod in acknowledgment. The opposing team scored a point then, making the crowd around them groan and shout a few choice words to their own goalkeeper. Will made sure no one was paying them any mind before he pulled out the wrapped fruitcake from his pocket.

“Actually,” he told Blake, “I bring something to share.”

“Oh?”

Blake blinked down at the parcel he produced. With careful hands, Will unwrapped one end of the brown paper and presented Blake with the home-baked treat—or the crumbs of it, really.

“No,” Blake stuttered out, adamantly shaking his head. “You can’t give me that. You should enjoy it!”

“I can, and I will,” Will said with calm determination. “I want to share this with you, Blake. It’s all right.”

“Scho…” He tried again, but Will raised his eyebrows in a challenge and moved the treat closer to him. His stubbornness left him in one long exhale, and he shyly brought a squished piece to his mouth. To Will’s amusement, Blake closed his eyes and hummed deeply at the taste after he chewed. “My God, this is delicious.”

Will smiled over at him and leaned a bit further to the side, just enough for his arm to come into contact with Blake’s and remain there. “Happy Christmas Eve, Blake.”

Blake melted against Will. He leaned even more heavily against his side, knocking their knees together as he subtly nestled closer to Will’s body heat. Will let him and lost himself in the flavor of cinnamon, sugar, and dried fruits.

• • •

April 1917 changed Will’s life forever. It was on the 6th when he took Blake’s offered hand and went with him to meet General Erinmore. It was on the 6th when he crossed No Man’s Land with nothing but a rifle, a couple of grenades, and Blake by his side.

It was on the 6th when he held a bleeding Blake in his arms and whispered eternal promises into his skin, when he said goodbye to him and let go of his hand in the back of a lorry, marching on to Écoust on his own.

It was on the 7th when Will ran over the British trench in the new front. It was on the 7th when he passed on the damned letter from Army Command to Colonel Mackenzie and completed the near-suicide mission.

It was on the 7th when Will first met Lieutenant Joseph Blake, when he witnessed his expression morph from excitement to something akin to _grief_ after he informed him his brother had been rushed to an aid post. Will would be haunted by it for years to come.

On April 7th, 1917, he vowed to move Heaven and Earth to help Blake rejoin his brother in perfect health from that moment forth.

• • •

Christmas Eve of 1917 found Will alone with the rest of the 8th East Surreys. They were stationed in Éperlecques, near Saint-Omer. The skeleton remains of a town served as a decent cover, and they were so far away from the new front for once that Will couldn’t hear any shellfire under the muted cushion of snowfall.

A small group of new reinforcements entertained themselves by belting out Christmas carols and challenging each other to make each new line crasser than the last. However, Will’s whole attention was centered on the paper held tightly in his hands and the last few words handwritten near the end.

_Devotedly yours,_

_Tom_

No matter how much he tried to force himself not to, Will had already read over those two simple lines dozens of times. This was the first time Tom signed with his given name, the first time he wrote so brazenly. Will could hear Tom’s unique lilt ringing in his mind, pushing forth a rather stark blush over his cheeks that he could easily blame on the biting cold if anyone were to ask.

“Good news from the home front then, Serge?” Private Simmons asked from Will’s right. He smoked from a pipe that smelled awful, but his expression was open enough to invite conversation.

Will wanted to speak about Tom, yell his name to the frozen winds now that he was apparently granted permission to use it, but something jealous and protective in him stopped him from doing so. Will carefully folded Tom’s letter and pulled out his Hignett’s tobacco tin to preserve it with all the care he held.

After a short pause, Will decided to talk about other news Tom had shared in his letter. So he settled for relaying the bits about Joe, saying, “Somewhat. A friend was hoping to go on leave for Christmas, but it got granted for after New Year’s instead.”

Tom had elaborated quite a bit on his mother’s disappointment after hearing Joe wouldn’t be joining the family in England until weeks later than expected, but he sounded ecstatic about celebrating Christmas twice for his brother’s sake. Will kept that information quiet though, treasuring it in his heart instead.

“Blimey, that still sounds like a good deal, it does,” Private Simmons said. “Not to disrespect these fine ladies’ effort in providing us with a turkey dinner, but I’d have my wife’s over theirs any time.”

He used his pipe to motion back toward a pair of long wooden planks a few soldiers had set up as improvised tables. Four French women busied themselves plucking at least half a dozen turkeys to offer the troops a humble Christmas dinner on the 25th. Their ages ranged from about Will’s own to an elderly woman whose hair was nearly as white as the snow surrounding them.

The sight of them brought a soft smile to Will’s features, and he turned back to Simmons. “Careful, Private,” he said, playful in his scolding, “One should never look a gift horse in the mouth. It’d be appropriate if you headed over and offered your services to our kind benefactors.”

Simmons spluttered for a moment before he gave in with a deep sigh. He tapped his pipe empty and fixed the weight of his webbing before offering Will a halfhearted salute.

“Sergeant.”

Will allowed himself a secretive smile as he watched Simmons approach the French women. He thumbed the shape of his tin over his jacket and gave thanks to whomever still listened that Tom had healed enough to go on convalescent leave and enjoy his mother’s turkey dinner. If Tom stayed safe, maybe Will could find peace in the middle of this war.

• • •

Will kissed Tom for the first time at the start of February 1918. The 8th East Surreys had been weaving through the border between France and Belgium for a few days, and Will had lost track of time in all the marching. Tom later explained that he was able to rejoin them after coming back from his leave thanks to the constant arrival of reinforcements from the 7th facilitating him transport.

It took Will some time to fully comprehend that Tom was back. He had come back to _Will_. He even thought Tom was a hallucination when he spotted him standing at the edge of the area they had designated for that day’s training, eyes fixed on him and smile so wide his dimples showed.

It had taken every fiber in Will’s being to resist the urge to abandon training and run straight into Tom’s arms in front of their entire company. But Will was a weak man when it came to Tom—he was shameless to admit now—so the minute the sun set behind the horizon in West Flanders, Will dragged Tom to the furthest reaches of their camp and snogged him senseless.

They were graced with a treasured moment that felt like it lasted less than a breath. Desperate hands hooked in unrelenting grips, unwilling to let go ever again, and Will swore his life and devotion to Thomas Blake before the moon had fully crested over the godforsaken battlefields of Belgium.

• • •

Will pulled a few strings to get both his name and Tom’s added to the final leave list a mere month after the armistice had gone into effect. It wasn’t overly complicated, thankfully. The two of them had been serving for over two years and had suffered injuries in battle. With the added weight of Mrs. Blake struggling on her own and Winnie now being a widow, the brass had granted them permission to join the demobilization efforts earlier than expected.

After learning that Joe would continue his military career, Will coordinated with him over multiple letters to prepare a small surprise for Tom. While Joe would not be demobilizing, he took a page from Will’s book and practically granted himself an extended leave for the holidays that cleanly overlapped with Will and Tom’s return to England.

Tom and his brother would be going home together. They would be going back to their mother whole, _alive_.

When Will showed Tom Joe’s letter confirming it so, Tom threw his arms around his neck and cried against his shoulder in front of their entire section.

Afterward, Tom and his brother made plans to meet up at the Infantry Base Depot set up on the coast of Calais. The three of them would wait there to sail back to England and disembark together in Southampton—a perfect plan. However, Will came down with a small case of the flu while on the way to Calais.

He didn’t suffer from worse symptoms than a stuffed nose, an annoying cough, and a bone-deep ache in his entire body—all things he had gotten quite used to during his three years in service. Tom fretted about him though. He remained close to Will’s side regardless of how much he protested against it. Tom would share his blanket with him to provide extra warmth and run soothing fingers through his sweat-soaked hair.

Their small plan fell to shambles a few days later, when Tom and Will reached the transit camp in Calais and found neither glimpse nor sign of Joe. They searched for days, but no one they asked had seen or heard of Major Blake. And the more they waited for Joe, the more Will’s condition worsened too.

 _A pandemic_ , the officer in charge of their section of the camp had lamented on Christmas Eve. Nearly half their men had fallen ill with influenza, and many had succumbed to waterlogged lungs.

Will blinked at the grisly forecast, as numb to the words as he was to the whistles commanding he go over the top of a trench, but Tom… Tom _panicked_.

He ignored Will’s promises that he was all right. He was barely doing worse than when he first caught his cold—“No, that’s no _lie_ , Tom”—, and his coughing remained dry and not wet like that of the worst cases. Will soon figured he would have more luck asking the weather to bring the sun back than changing Tom’s mind, so he gave back the copy of _The Better Times_ to their bunkmate and followed Tom out into the sea-windy day.

He allowed Tom to drag him halfway across the camp and into the first aid station they found that didn’t appear overrun. A young volunteer nurse there ushered Will over to one of the cots set outside the main tent, and he smiled at the affronted look on Tom’s face when she waved him back so she could work in peace.

She took Will’s face into a tight grip and maneuvered him as needed, not necessarily gentle in her efficiency. He remained still while she checked his eyes, turned left and right when she nudged him, and popped his mouth open when she pulled at his jaw to check for signs of infection. Through her entire inspection, Will kept peering at Tom over her shoulder, which was the sole reason why he witnessed Tom’s startled flinch when a voice called out to them from nearby.

“Well, well, well. Who would have thought I’d find you here of all places? My bets were on six feet under.”

Will remained unable to turn, but he watched as recognition shifted Tom’s features.

“Lieutenant Leslie?” Tom asked in disbelief.

Will gently pried away from the nurse’s grip and turned to regard the newcomer. The man standing next to them hunched slightly, haggard and bored. A lit cigarette hung from the grimace on his lips, and his hands rested in the pockets of his trousers. Will had forgotten all about Lieutenant Leslie, just like he had forgotten most of that ill-fated day in 1917, but the memories came flooding back to him now that he could face Leslie again.

“Did you bring back my flare gun like ordered?” Leslie asked, though it was obvious he expected no answer.

“You recognized us?” Tom asked, just as surprised by that idea as Will.

“Hard to forget two fools sent on a widow-making mission.”

“Lieutenant, if you please,” the nurse tending to Will exclaimed, scandalized.

Leslie rolled his eyes and flicked the ash off his cigarette. “He’s alright, Ethel, dear. If the man can stand and is not coughing his lungs out, then he can still crawl away from the grave.”

“Lieutenant!”

Will held up a hand to pause a sure tirade and gave Ethel the most polite smile he could manage. “It’s all right,” he said. “I’m sorry for wasting your time.”

Ethel paused for a moment, affronted, so Leslie waved his hand at her in clear dismissal. She huffed at the rude shooing motion and turned on her heels, stomping away without a second glance at Will or Tom.

Once she was gone, Tom immediately took her place next to Will. He crossed his arms over his chest and stood as tall as he could, staring up at Leslie as if daring him to bother Will any further.

“That wasn’t very nice,” he told Leslie, who couldn’t be bothered to care at that point.

Instead, his eyes scanned Will and Tom’s uniforms, settling on Tom’s triple chevrons and Will’s stars. “Looks like you kept busy,” he said.

“Looks like you didn’t.”

Will startled at the cutting tone in Tom’s reply. He could understand if Tom still held a grudge against Leslie after the sendoff he gave them into No Man’s Land, but Tom was still addressing a higher officer no matter how little he thought of him. Thankfully, his brashness only piqued Leslie’s interest. His gaze finally trailed up to stare Tom in the eyes for a long moment, and something must have happened because Leslie suddenly stilled.

He pointed his cigarette at Tom and asked, “You’re a Blake, aren’t you?”

Tom narrowed his eyes, wary. “Sir?”

But Leslie didn’t seem to hear him. Instead, he squinted as he mumbled, “By God, you are the spitting image of him.”

Will stood up from the cot and pressed close to Tom’s side in support, straightening his back so that he could tower over his fellow Lieutenant. Tom shifted next to him, and Will tensed in preparation for Leslie’s answer. He would hold back Tom from attacking Leslie if he had to…but he would also join in and punch Leslie if he had to.

“You…you know my brother, sir?” Tom asked. “Joseph Blake. Have you seen him?”

“Oh, I have seen him alright. He’s stuck in this very tent,” said Leslie, motioning over at the large first aid tent set up behind Will. “Wouldn’t stop chatting my ears off while I was trying my best to recover.”

Will released his breath in relief at the same time Tom took an eager step forward. “Can you take me to him? You have to let me see him!”

“Tom,” Will soothed. He briefly pressed a hand to Tom’s lower back, willing him to hold on to his restraint for a little longer. His heart fluttered when Tom swayed closer to his touch without hesitation.

“Alright then,” Leslie said, although he kept a calculating stare on them. Finally, he sighed and admitted, “Can’t promise it will be a pretty sight though.”

• • •

Will didn’t recognize Mayor Joseph Blake when he first laid eyes on him. His stubble had grown in during the time he spent bedridden, and his skin was clammy and pale. Joe only blinked his eyes open when Leslie sauntered over to his cot, and the bags under his eyes scared Will in the deepest part of his chest. He knew what a man losing a fight looked like all too well.

“Oi, Blake,” Leslie called, his volume none too mindful.

Joe smiled when he spotted Leslie, and Will noticed with no small amount of shock that he actually looked _pleased_ to see him.

“Ah, I knew you’d be back eventually,” Joe said, voice gravely in his throat. “Ready to hear about the rat that became a prophet?”

“Not remotely close,” Leslie said.

Tom snapped out of the daze he had fallen into next to Will at the sound of Joe’s voice. With a choked cry of his name, he broke away from Will’s side and rushed over to his cot. Will caught a glimpse of Joe’s elated expression before Tom’s back blocked his view as he embraced his older brother. Their laughter flooded the entire tent, and a few nurses and doctors turned at the commotion, but they thankfully gave the Blakes a moment upon understanding what was happening.

Leslie quietly stepped away from the scene and toward Will, who stood guard on the sidelines with a fond smile. Leslie looked back at the two brothers once he was closer to Will and took a long drag of his cigarette.

“I guess you can call that a bloody Christmas miracle,” Leslie groused. “At least the Major will stop nagging me about getting him a gift now.”

Will sent him a sideways glance. Cracks and chips that he didn’t remember now stood out in Leslie’s uncaring front, his edges softer and less cutting than they were a year and a half ago. Will wondered whether it was due to an extra year of battle or due to Joe specifically.

Leslie noticed his stare and immediately glared back, defensive. With another roll of his eyes, he lifted his cigarette as a mock salute in Will’s direction.

“Cheers, then. Peace on Earth and all that shite.”

With that, he shouldered his way past Will and walked away.

• • •

The next time Will met with Joe again, an entire year had passed. An entire year that he got to spend together with Tom in London, fighting off nightmares and trading reverent affection under shared bed sheets. The two of them stood together now, having stepped off the train at the familiar station of Tom’s hometown. Will had his youngest niece, Dorothy, balanced against his hip and Winnie’s suitcase in his other hand. She stood next to him, almost matching his height and with her dark hair clipped back into a lovely bun. She held her oldest, Helen, by the hand.

Tom placed their remaining luggage on the ground by Will’s feet and searched the station with an eager glint in his eyes. Will shifted Dorothy’s weight—she really was growing too big to carry anymore—and craned his neck to aid Tom in his perusal. There were not many travelers getting off at this station, and there were even less people waiting for them. A few lonely travelers continued on their way without greeting anyone, and a large family erupted into cheers and squealing children when an elderly couple joined them.

As Will’s eyes continued their sweep of the station—find the exits, check the windows, identify appropriate cover—Tom gave an elated shout and dashed away from his side. Will snapped his attention forward just in time to catch Joe’s smile before Tom threw his whole weight at him. To Joe’s credit, he barely swayed at all, keeping his stance firm and steady as he wrapped his arms around Tom and cleanly lifted him off the floor.

“There’s my little nuisance,” Joe said in a little cheer.

“Joe! Put me down, you bastard.” Tom laughed, open and joyful even as he smacked at Joseph’s shoulders and back.

“Is it me or have you gotten taller?” Joe asked and released Tom from the hug. He ruffled Tom’s wild curls and pulled him closer so that he could cup his face and squeeze his cheeks with the palm of his hands. “You’ve been doing all right?”

“Yes, yes. Now stop fussing,” Tom said.

Joe parted from Tom with a warm pat to his cheek, and his eyes zeroed in on Will and his family next. Will passed Dorothy over to Winnie while the brothers approached them. Joe’s sudden attention had Will’s back snapping into a straight line, and he had to consciously refrain from tapping his heels together and shooting his hand up in an army salute. Joe noticed his posture and sent him a friendly smile.

“At ease, soldier,” he said, tone warm and teasing as he offered a hand for Will to shake. When Will accepted the gesture, Joe tugged him closer into a one-armed hug and patted Will’s back. “It’s good to see you again, Will.”

“It’s good to have you back,” Will said. He stepped back and motioned for Winnie to join them. “This is my sister, Winifred, and her two girls.”

“Please, call me Winnie,” she said with her usual gorgeous smile.

Joseph gave her a polite smile and a charming bow. “It’s a pleasure to meet you,” he said.

“The pleasure is ours,” Winnie said. “We have heard so much of you from Tom and your mother. It’s good to finally be able to tell which stories were true and which were all fantasy.”

Joe laughed. “If Tom here told them, then I assure you more than half come from his imagination and not his memory.”

Winnie gracefully ignored Tom’s offended exclamation and continued, “Well, you _are_ missing a pair of horns and a tail.”

The adults’ laughter finally put the children at ease, who finally detached enough from their mom to regard Joe curiously. It was Helen who took a step closer to him and demanded his attention with a shy tug on his sleeve. Joe blinked down at her and dropped into an easy crouch upon her beckoning.

“Hello,” she said once he was eye-level with her, “I’m Helen, and Mum says I’ll be as tall as Uncle Will one day.”

Joe smiled, unused to children but gentle nonetheless. “Aye, I can see that, little Miss Helen. You’re so tall already, you might be taller than me sooner than you think.”

Helen beamed at the compliment.

Joe straightened, satisfied, and cleared his throat to say, “Well, I should better get you back home then. Mother wanted to wait for you before placing the Yule log in the fire.”

• • •

The tender winter sun remained hidden behind a thick layer of clouds that dusted snowflakes all over the town’s central plaza, but people took advantage of the dim light and still bustled about the rural streets. The cobblestone road was covered entirely by snow, and Will faltered when his foot sunk ankle-deep in it. There was always an attempt to keep the streets in London clear of snow for the motorcars, but Will noticed the villagers here didn’t seem to mind the extra hassle.

“Hope you don’t mind our transport home,” Joe said.

“Why would we…?” Tom’s voice disappeared under the girls’ excited squeals once Joe walked over to a pair of _massive_ Shire horses attached to a humble wooden cart.

The horses’ hair and fur had been left long to protect them against the winter cold. One of them shined pure black, interrupted only by the white streak on its forehead and the white fur over its hooves. The other was dark bay in color, accented by its black nose and legs. Joe cooed something soft and approached the black stallion, which instantly shoved his muzzle into his arms in fondness.

“Mum, they are huge,” Helen said, tugging insistently on Winnie’s sleeve and pointing at the horses as if the inattentive onlooker could miss them. They appeared even taller while standing next to Joe.

“Those are no ponies,” Dorothy agreed.

Will and Winnie shared a grin and herded the two girls toward the back of the wooden cart. Plenty of warm blankets laid about to help keep the family warm during the short ride to the Blake home, and the girls scampered over to bury under them once Will heaved them up onto the cart. Tom helped him secure their luggage there too and moved to sit at the front bench next to Joe while Will and Winnie climbed on the back with Helen and Dorothy. Winnie pulled Dorothy up onto her lap and wrapped them both tight into a cocoon with a second blanket, and Helen cuddled up to Will’s side, pushing against him until he threw an arm around her shoulders.

After a soft initial lurch, the horses dragged the cart forward with little effort.

“I still can’t believe you showed up with horses, of all things,” Tom told Joe, radiant with youthful wonder. Will looked up at the two brothers, and the love nestled deep in his chest stirred at the sight of Tom’s profile, warming him from the inside out. “How did you get a hold of ‘em?”

“I didn’t _steal_ them, if that’s what you’re asking.” Joe laughed. “I helped bring these two lads back from France a while ago. Mr. Hobbs was tasked to nurse them back to health. I’ve been working with him for half my leave so that he would let me bring them today.”

“Do they have names?” Dorothy piped up, doing her best to get a peek at the horses again.

“Of course,” Joe said, light and merry. “The bay one is Balius. His friend is Atlas.”

“Those are funny names,” Helen concluded.

“You think so?” Joe asked. “They are names pulled right from old myths, proper for brave warriors.”

“Mummy, what are myths?” Dorothy asked.

“They’re stories, darling,” Winnie said, “Like the ones your Uncle Will reads to you.”

At that, Helen sat up and sent Will a rather earnest look. “Could you read us the story of Balius and Atlas?”

Will smiled, endeared by their curiosity. Regardless of their eagerness, Homer’s works were not meant for such young ears. So he settled for a quiet, “Maybe when you’re older,” and placed a kiss to the top of Helen’s head.

They set down the road at a gentle walk. A few of the people they passed would wave at them or wish them a happy Christmas Eve. Some of them even recognized the Blakes, sending greetings to their mother and welcoming Tom home. They passed a few carolers too, who urged the girls to join them in singing _God Rest Ye Merry Gentlemen_. The whole endeavor made Will feel as if he had stumbled his way into a Charles Dickens’ novel.

It took them mere minutes to leave the town center behind, and the streets disappeared into wide expanses of white hills and orchards of every kind. The horses picked their way through the soft snow with no problem, and Will was suddenly grateful for Joseph’s ability to foresee possible complications in their short journey.

“So,” Tom spoke up after a while, “your leave is ending soon then?”

“Not for a few more weeks, no,” said Joe. “Things are much different in France now. The rebuilding efforts are going at a marvelous pace, and the new graveyards are oddly beautiful. It’s…strangely peaceful to see, you know? But it still doesn’t…” He paused and swallowed thickly. “Anyway, I wager I won’t have to serve overseas much longer. I think I want to stay closer to home this time. My pay shouldn’t be affected, at least.”

“Mom will be over the moon if you stay closer, that’s for sure,” Tom said.

Joe draped an arm over Tom’s shoulders and pulled him into a tight squeeze. Will shared a knowing look with Winnie at the display of sibling affection and snuggled deeper into the warm blankets with Helen.

• • •

By the time Joe pulled Atlas and Balius to a stop, Margaret Blake had already stepped out of the house and was waiting for them at the front door with a thick woolen blanket wrapped tight around her shoulders. She stood shorter than her two sons, but her dark curls and plump cheeks left no mistake of their relation to each other

The moment Tom spotted his mother, he leaped off the front seat of the cart and ran toward her as best as he could in the snow.

“Ma!”

He threw his arms around her and drowned her cheerful cries with his laughter. In the meantime, Joe set about tending to the horses while Will and Winnie helped the girls off the cart. Their movement caught Mrs. Blake’s attention again, who had been squeezing Tom’s cheeks the same way Joe had at the station.

“And there are my two little birds,” Mrs. Blake cried out, throwing her arms open toward Helen and Dorothy.

“Granny!”

Once their feet touched the snowed ground, the two girls were off to huddle around Mrs. Blake. She dropped kisses on their heads and cheeks as she cooed excitedly at them, and they giggled in return. Will smiled at the sight, but he stayed back to fetch their suitcases while Winnie went over to greet their host for the holidays.

Tom rushed back to help Will with their luggage, and Joe turned back to them with Atlas and Balius’ reins firmly gripped in his hands.

“I’ll go take these boys back to Mr. Hobbs,” he said. “I won’t be long.”

They nodded and turned to join their family once Joe headed over to their neighbor’s barn. Mrs. Blake straightened up when they approached her and sent them a bright smile.

“Oh, my dear Will. It’s so good to have you back,” she told him. Mrs. Blake had to stand on her tiptoes to cup Will’s face between her palms. Showing some mercy, Will bent forward and eased into her hug. He had the sudden thought that Mrs. Blake’s warmth was enough to dislodge months’ worth of stored anxiety and exhaustion off his chest. No wonder Tom was so good at it too.

The front door opened behind Mrs. Blake without warning, spilling warmth and light over them all. The thundering of tiny claws against wooden floors reached their ears before over half a dozen Border Collie puppies trampled out. They were only a couple of months old, if Will had to guess. Most were black and white, others were spotted or purely black, but they all wore a bright red bow tied around their necks to spread the holiday cheer. They sniffed at the snow and at the heels of everyone present, whipping up a storm with their wagging tails.

“Puppies!” Tom and the girls cried out at the same time.

“Oh. I understand now why you were so adamant I waited for you inside,” said none other than Lieutenant Leslie.

He came out of the Blake house and leaned against the doorframe, surveying the newly arrived. Although Joe had mentioned him plenty in his letters to Tom and had warned them he would be tagging along during leave, it was still quite a shock to see him under such informal circumstances.

“Ellis!” Mrs. Blake exclaimed, using that exasperated tone only mothers could convey when using one’s given name.

“Where’s Joseph?” Leslie asked instead, sweeping his gaze over the front of the property. “He said he would be back with this lot.”

“He’ll be joining us shortly,” she replied with a fond huff, bending down to pick up as many wriggly puppies as she could. “Now come help our guests settle in, at the very least.” She turned back to Helen and Dorothy next, who were petting every Border Collie that approached them. “Come on now, my birdies. Each one of you grab a pup and follow me where it’s warm.”

The girls quickly did as told, and Winnie ushered them inside. Tom and Will accepted Leslie’s help with their luggage before they took on the task of wrangling the remaining pups. Tom dropped kisses onto the soft fur of their heads while Will tilted his chin back to avoid getting sloppy kisses on the mouth.

Mrs. Blake popped her head out the front door again. “Come inside and warm up, boys,” she said, “I’ve lit up the fireplace, but the Yule log still needs to be thrown in. I’ve also readied the hot cakes and cider to take outside in a moment.”

Will followed next to Tom, each with an armful of overexcited Border Collies. “Why would we bring the food outside?” he asked him.

“For the trees, of course,” Tom said, puzzling Will even further.

The moment they stepped inside the modest house, the warmth from the fireplace thawed the chill right out of their bones. Holly, ivy, and mistletoe hung from little hooks and strings around the rooms and over the doors, and a small spruce tree sat cozily in a corner of the living room. It had been decorated with tinsel, red ribbons, and pinecones, giving the place the classic Christmas feel Will had grown up with.

Tom and Will let the puppies loose again, who stumbled over to follow everyone into the living room, where Helen and Dorothy had ambushed Leslie with questions. Myrtle lay resting on a large cushion by the fireplace, looking for all as a rather exhausted mother. Her black ears perked up the moment Tom entered the room though, and she nearly tripped nose-first in her haste to reach him.

“Myrtle! There you are, my sweet girl,” Tom cooed, dropping down to a crouch so that Myrtle could snuggle into his chest and try her damned best to cover him in kisses while she whined in crazed happiness.

Will soaked in the scene from the side with a gentle smile. As he allowed the warmth of the house to lift his spirits, he noticed that some melancholy lingered in his heart at one particular thought: He had forgotten what it felt like to celebrate Christmas Eve like this.

• • •

Once the Yule log—a thick log heavily decorated with pine branches and red ribbons—burned safely in the fireplace, the adults bundled up again and grabbed the wicker baskets Mrs. Blake had already prepared for their excursion. Winnie had declared she would stay home and prepare her famous fruitcake with her daughters’ help in the meantime.

“A wise decision,” Mrs. Blake had said, “Bread baked on Christmas Eve never goes moldy.”

Will followed Mrs. Blake, Joe, Tom, and Leslie down to the small orchard the Blakes kept next to their house. The space was small, and there were less than a dozen cherry trees scattered about, but it was enchanting nonetheless. Their branches were bare at this time of year, spreading long fingers over the pure white snow. _Perfect_ , as the Blakes had always claimed.

Will and Leslie stood back and waited for any cues as Mrs. Blake and her two sons approached the tree at the very most center and pulled out a few hot cakes from their baskets. Much to Will’s surprise, they proceeded to fix the cakes to the branches that they could reach.

“Come here, Will,” Tom called him over, “help me out with the ones higher up.”

Will sent him a fond smile and found his rightful place by his side. He followed instructions as Tom told him where to fix the cakes, which branches would snap under the small weight, and—“No, Will, don’t _eat_ them!”

They stepped back to admire their work with laughter still on their lips. Will admitted that the hot cakes made for rather odd decorations, and the little tradition would only grow stranger.

“Now, boys,” Mrs. Blake addressed her two guests, “we get the cider and throw it over the tree, shouting ‘Bear, bear, cherries and pears. Barns full, bags full, sacks full’ to the top of our lungs.”

“We have to yell?” asked Will.

“We have to _throw_ the cider?” asked Leslie, alarmed.

“It’s every farmer’s secret to a bountiful year,” Joe shrugged. His grin was so wide Will was struck with the realization that he had never appeared so young before.

“We have more cider at home,” Tom assured Leslie with a humored roll of his eyes. “This is fun. It’s tradition!”

Leslie put his hands up in mock surrender. “Alright, I’ll behave,” he said.

“That’s a first,” Joe didn’t miss a beat in his reply, and he easily dodged Leslie when he poked him in retaliation.

Once more following Tom’s example, Will pulled out the small bottle of cider from his wicker basket. He pulled the cork from its top and swung his arm out, spilling the drink in streaks against the knotted trunk.

“Bear, bear, cherries and pears. Barns full, bags full, sacks full,” they all yelled at the same time.

“Ellis, don’t!” Joe exclaimed and lunged at Leslie, who had already tipped back what remained of his cider after barely flicking some of it onto the tree.

Leslie turned tail and ran away from Joe, dodging his attempts to tackle him and wrestle the empty glass from his hands. Their no doubt spectacular choice words were drowned out by everyone’s laughter, and Will felt surprisingly light in that moment. Peaceful.

“That’s a bit unsettling to watch,” Tom spoke up next to Will, eyes still fixed on his laughing brother.

Will smiled down at Tom— _his_ Tom—and threw an arm around his shoulders. “Absolutely terrifying,” he agreed and placed a warm kiss on his forehead.

• • •

It was three hours ‘til Christmas Day when Winnie finally herded Helen and Dorothy upstairs to sleep. The stockings that Mrs. Blake had knitted for them already hung atop the fireplace, ready to be filled with gifts from Santa Claus. The girls had also helped to plate the carrots and pour the brandy for Santa’s reindeer, which would be thirsty after going around the entire world—although not thirstier than Joseph and Leslie, if the drunken giggles coming from the kitchen were anything to go by.

Once the girls had gone to bed, Mrs. Blake changed the music in her cylinder phonograph from symphonies to recordings of soothing Christmas carols performed on piano. The entire house stilled in peace, and so did Will. He sat on the large couch by the fireplace with Tom snuggled tight against his side. Will kept an arm draped over him, tucking him even closer and tracing circles on his shoulder with his thumb, while Tom wrapped his around Will’s waist. Tom’s curls smelled of snow and gingerbread biscuits from where Will had his head resting on top of his, dozing lightly in bliss to a grainy rendition of _Good King Wenceslas_.

Tom stirred next to him, tilting his head up and dislodging Will from his comfortable spot. He grumbled at the loss but locked gazes with Tom’s starry bright blues regardless. His eyes reflected the lit candles around the room, warming the love in his expression as he gazed up at Will.

“I was thinking,” Tom said in a soft murmur, “that it’s been three years since I last tried Winnie’s fruitcake.”

Will paused, sorting through the storm of memories that thinking back to 1916 brought. “I don’t think that one counts. It was stale and nothing but crumbs,” he said.

Tom shook his head, gentle. “No, I loved it. That was the first time you reached out to me. I thought you hated me until then.”

Will furrowed his eyebrows. “I could never hate you,” he swore and traced his fingers over Tom’s jaw, lingering right below his bottom lip.

“I know that now,” Tom said and grinned bright and wide as he pressed into Will’s touch, “and I think I knew back then too. Knew that I loved you.”

Tom’s fingers trailed up Will’s knitted jumper and hooked in the neckline. With an amused smile, Will followed Tom’s gentle tug down until their lips fit together, soft and warm by the fireplace. Tom melted against him, brushing an exhale against his cheek, and Will could only gather him closer, his hand still cupping the side of his face. He licked into Tom’s mouth, gentle and unhurried. Tom tasted of candied fruit and cinnamon, and Will was hopelessly addicted.

When Tom pulled back, it was only to whisper a quiet, “Happy Christmas Eve, Will,” against his lips.

“Happy Christmas Eve, Tom,” he echoed, hushed in his wonderstruck daze.

Will leaned forward to savor Tom’s fond smile again and dared to believe that peace on Earth had finally come to stay.

**Author's Note:**

> Thank you for reading through to the end!
> 
> As you probably guessed, a lot of historical research went into this fic even if 90% of it was entirely self-indulgent. Stuart Baker wrote an article for the Grantham Journal on Wednesday, December 24th, 1919 in which he described the Christmas traditions at the time. It inspired most of Will's 1919 Christmas Eve with the Blakes. His article was titled Christmas-Old and New: Quaint Customs of Yuletide.
> 
> I also researched demobilization and military discharge in WW1 until my head hurt with all the information. Of course, the men didn't stop being soldiers the moment the armistice was signed. Demobilization was a long and convoluted process, and even if a soldier made it back to the UK, he was still considered to be on "final leave" and could be called back to serve in case of a national emergency unless he was officially discharged. Moreover, there was a lot of clean-up left to do in France and Belgium. I was hoping to mention the Imperial War Graves Commission by name when Joe talked about this, but I failed to come up with a natural way for him to refer to them. If you love history as much as I do, I really recommend checking out The Long, Long Trail for more information!
> 
> Enjoy your holidays, everyone! And Happy New Year! I hope 2021 is a much kinder year for us all.


End file.
